


Hellhound:  Pursuit

by Wanderer



Series: The Hellhound Chronicles [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:47:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28034160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderer/pseuds/Wanderer
Summary: Sequel to "Hellhound".  Finch and Reese hunt Nazis in post-WWII South America.
Relationships: Harold Finch/John Reese, Jessica Arndt/John Reese
Series: The Hellhound Chronicles [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2053506
Comments: 8
Kudos: 18





	Hellhound:  Pursuit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mooninscorpio](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mooninscorpio/gifts).



_Day One: Chess matches_

When he walked into the kitchen, John looked Harold over with a quick glance that seemed far more casual than it really was. Finch looked dapper as always, in a silver vest, light grey shirt and pants that set off his blue eyes. _My handsome scientist_ , Reese thought, admiring him. Harold had even left off his usual coat and tie for once, a bit of informality Reese appreciated. His eyes looked brighter, the weary lines around his mouth were gone, and he smiled warmly when he saw Reese.

Reese quirked just a tiny smile back, but he took great satisfaction in the fact that Harold looked much more rested than he had last night. Other than his bruised neck, he seemed to have recovered from looking after Reese. He wondered what Harold’s smile meant though; was it relief or appreciation? Maybe Harold had feared he’d leave after all, despite his promise not to. But for a moment, he dared to hope that maybe the sight of him just made Harold feel warm all over, like Reese felt whenever he looked at his scientist. 

Then he reminded himself that he didn’t deserve such a reaction, or to think of Harold as _his_ either. 

He deliberately dropped his gaze to the vivid bruises encircling his friend’s neck. They’d changed color slightly, as they would until they healed. But he knew they must still hurt, and he longed to reach out and touch Harold, to pet and kiss him until he forgot about the pain. 

Harold must’ve caught him looking. He glanced away, shifting a bit uncomfortably. “I made you some coffee,” he said, pointing to a cup steaming next to a covered plate. “And I heated an omelet for you.” 

“Thanks.” Reese picked up the coffee and omelet, knowing it was his friend’s way of changing the subject. Harold didn’t want him to feel guilty anymore. But he needn’t have worried. Reese had no intention of rehashing the way he’d almost killed him again -- except with himself. Every damn day until those bruises disappeared, and probably long afterward too. 

_You bastard_ , he swore silently, hating himself anew. _You’re never going to make up for that_. But he knew better than to say so, or let his self-loathing show. They’d already argued enough about that. 

He just sipped his hot coffee, then sat down and started to eat his omelet. He tried to turn his thoughts to happier things, like the air of contentment he sensed in Harold as he sat across from him, eating a piece of buttered toast. They ate quietly, as they often did, but their silence was warm and companionable now, with none of last night’s tension. It seemed like Finch was looking forward to their chess matches too. Reese was glad of that.

He didn’t eat much, though. He was a little too wound up. He managed about half of his omelet, then got up to put the rest back in their refrigerator. Though Sofia’s omelets were always spicy and delicious, he could always finish it when he got hungry later. It was hard to think about food right now, with Harold sitting beside him looking adorable as he slowly sipped his tea, and the prospect of a whole week alone with him dangling in front of Reese, tempting as the proverbial apple that the snake had once used to tempt Adam and Eve. 

After he stowed the remains of his omelet away, he paused at the refrigerator door as excitement, love, and gratitude suddenly filled his heart so much it hurt. He had things to look forward to now – not just this week of chess, but so many things; because of Finch. Before Harold had found him again, in those dark days marked only by drinking and fighting, all he’d wanted was to die. He could never have imagined this new life Finch had given him. The incredible gift of his friendship, and a new and just purpose to boot. Reese loved it all deeply, like he’d once cherished his life with Jessica. And it was all due to Harold. It would’ve half killed him to leave it, to leave Harold like he’d meant to…

He could only pray that staying wasn’t a mistake. 

He must’ve stood there a moment, staring into space, lost in his emotions. When he heard Harold stand up behind him, he blinked, shut the refrigerator door and turned around.

Finch had already half-filled the sink with soapy water. He put his tea cup and their plates and cutlery into it to soak, then turned to smile at him. “Are you ready to play, Mr. Reese?”

 _You have no idea how ready_ , Reese thought, longing to flash a broad grin at his friend’s teasing invitation. He knew Finch had used his last name as a sort of playful challenge before they began their games. He felt more than up to it. His shirt was slightly unbuttoned, he was freshly showered and shaved, and his whole body was brimming with anticipation. Oh, he was _so_ ready for these games! All of them. He managed to nod calmly, though his heart had started beating a bit too fast the moment he’d come into the kitchen and seen Finch there waiting for him, looking like he’d dressed and shaved really carefully too. Looking goddamn _delicious_ , Reese thought hungrily. 

_Down boy_ , he told himself again ruefully. He’d gotten so good at self denial, it was still hard to imagine he could ever win Harold’s love; but he couldn’t give up hope just yet. Not until they’d played some chess, anyway, and until he’d seen whatever a prolonged study could tell him about Harold.

“Yeah. I’m ready, _Mr. Finch_ ,” he teased back, smiling a little. He took his coffee cup along as Harold turned and led the way into the library. When they’d moved in, he’d set up his chess board there, on a small table in the middle of the room. But to Reese’s surprise, this time Finch led him past that spot to the far side of the library instead. There large, floor-to-ceiling windows looked out on their green, grassy backyard, framed by trees in the distance. The table and chessboard now sat on a larger, sturdier table beside that window. 

Reese instantly guessed why Harold had moved the board and table there -- for his benefit. He wanted Reese to be able to look out on an open, green, sunlit expanse while they played, so being inside for a week wouldn’t seem so confining to him. He had to suppress a sudden urge to lift the smaller man off his feet in a grateful hug in response. _Aww, Harold_ , he thought fondly, even as he pondered what the kind gesture meant. Was this just another of the thousand ways that Finch constantly took care of him, or was it one more hint of deeper feelings? 

Whatever Harold’s motive for it, Reese was grateful. His smile was warmer and more genuine this time. “Thanks for moving the board here, Harold. This is a great place to play.”

Finch ducked his head a little, but his cheeks pinked with pleasure. “I think so too.” He waved Reese toward a chair. “Shall we?”

Reese moved towards one of the chairs beside the board, but paused because he’d already noticed that something else was different. He’d grown used to playing chess with Harold on the rather plain wooden board he’d used in his home in England. A gift from Nathan, he’d explained, during their student days at Cambridge. Finch had brought it with him to Buenos Aires, and Reese had assumed they’d be playing on it today. He’d figured Harold would hang onto that board forever, for sentimental reasons. He was surprised to see a new board on the table in front of him instead, its warm shades of finely polished wood gleaming softly in the morning light. It stopped him in his tracks.

“This is new,” he observed. It was probably not the reaction Finch was hoping for, but Reese was distracted, so it was simply the unvarnished truth. He’d been in the library a week ago, before he’d been shot, and the old board had still been here then. Not this one.

Finch paused beside his chair too, watching him expectantly, as if waiting for him to elaborate. 

Reese leaned down a little, looking at Finch’s new chessboard more closely. Its beauty told him that it was expensive, its original style that it was likely the work of a master artist or wood carver, or both. “Wow,” he murmured. “This is really something.”

Again, it wasn’t much of a compliment, but he was struggling to suppress a stab of jealousy, instinctive and really strong. Had Harold started dating someone, while he was away on missions? Had that someone bought this board for Harold recently? As a gift, maybe? But even as suspicions filled his mind, he had to admit that the new board was gorgeous. Envy followed hard on the heels of his jealousy, though. He wished he’d seen it first, and bought it for Harold himself.

Harold answered his unasked question for him. “Indeed. I saw it in an art gallery downtown last week, and it just – well, I suppose you could say it called to me,” he confessed with a smile.

Better that board than some woman, Reese thought wryly. He smiled back then, out of sheer relief that the board wasn’t from someone who might be competing for Harold’s affections. Harold had mentioned that he’d gone looking for a new doctor for him. Maybe that was when he’d found the board, too. Reese realized belatedly that he’d been so busy being jealous and envious of a rival who didn’t exist, he’d forgotten to compliment Harold on his purchase. 

“I can understand why you wanted it. It’s beautiful,” he said, meaning it. “Warm and elegant looking. I’ve never seen another one like it; it’s really unique.” _Just like you_ , he thought. He reached out to touch the board gently, admiring it the way he wished his hands could worship Harold. 

“Thank you.” Harold’s smile grew even wider. “I’m glad now that I happened upon it, just in time for our games.”

“Me too. It’ll be a pleasure to play on.” Reese ran a curious finger lightly over a square on the board, marveling at its maker’s skill. It was built so well that he couldn’t feel where one square ended and another began. He could identify the maple and walnut used to shape them, but didn’t know what varieties of wood had been used to make the pieces. They matched the squares but had a different, bolder grain, which was subtly visible even in the black ones. The pieces were exquisitely shaped, too, in a deceptively simple, curvaceous yet minimalist style Reese had never seen before. Maybe it was unique to the artist, he thought. Certainly only a master artist could’ve created such a beautiful chess board.

*

“I’m glad you think so,” Harold smiled, his own hand straying to touch the edge of the board, skating gently over its polished wooden rim. “Because I bought this for you.”

Reese straightened up again, so fast that the move looked dizzying to Harold. “What? This is – no!” he sputtered, shaking his head. 

It wasn’t a gracious reaction, but Finch knew he must’ve caught Reese entirely off guard, because he’d almost never seen his Hellhound incoherent like this before. Protest wasn’t what Harold had hoped for, but it wasn’t entirely unexpected either. When contemplating giving the chessboard to his friend, he’d anticipated that Reese might resist or even try to refuse the gift outright. But a wise chess player, or spymaster, always thought at least several moves ahead. So Harold had marshaled arguments in favor of his decision. He understood that Reese’s tragic past, coupled with military training that emphasized self-sacrifice, kept him from recognizing his own worth. But he had no intention of letting that blindness prevent him from bestowing his gift. He began by using John’s own words against him. He knitted his brow a little, in feigned confusion. “But you just said you really like it –” 

“I do! But that’s not the _point_!”

Silence was a tool Harold had long ago learned to use in arguments. He let his skeptical, raised eyebrow speak for him. _Then what is?_

Reese waved a rather agitated hand at the board. “Harold, that’s – it – this must’ve cost a bloody _fortune!_ ” 

Harold sighed to himself. He’d noticed that, as an American, John seldom used the English adjective “bloody” unless he was upset. His protest was just another way, of course, for Reese to say he felt unworthy of his gift. But the money Harold had spent on the board had been rather a drop in the bucket to him. And even if the cost had been huge, he’d’ve paid it and gladly, to create the look of admiration and appreciation he’d just seen in Reese’s eyes. It was clear he loved the board, and that, more than anything, made him determined that John should have it.

Since John’s agitation had given him an opening to be equally expressive, he just smiled and waved his own hand in a negligent gesture. “Hardly. And even if it had, I wouldn’t have minded.”

Reese shook his head. “ _Why?_ ” He still sounded confused, which Harold found both frustrating and endearing. 

“Because,” he answered. _You are “nulli secundus” to me – second to none_ , he thought but didn’t say. “You are a loyal partner and a superb operative, who’s always done far more than I’ve ever asked of you, and never asked anything from me in return.” As a statement of John’s worth, it did not go nearly far enough; yet just as far, he reckoned, as a good friend would safely be allowed to go. It was a calculation he’d grown used to gauging.

Reese just stared at him, as if still stunned by his gift. “But –”

Harold just smiled at Reese’s stubbornness. “If all that won’t suffice, then let me just say this. It’s because you are my dearest friend, and when I saw that board, I simply wanted you to have it.” That was as close to the truth as he dared go; and he fervently hoped that this time, Reese would accept both his answer and his gift.

*

At that, something rose up in Reese’s throat and almost choked him. There were those words again: “my dearest”. Just what he’d been longing to hear Harold say to him. _Jesus_. Even if Harold just meant it as a friend, it was such a heartfelt statement from the shy scientist that it meant everything to Reese. Harold had done all this -- bought this incredibly expensive, magnificent board, put it here by a window with a view, and said he was his dearest friend – all for him – but what had _he_ been doing? Secretly plotting to steal his friend’s secrets and find out if he was gay.

He felt sick. As usual Harold had been kind and generous, while he’d been a rotten, selfish bastard. First he’d choked poor Harold, then he’d threatened to leave him, and now he’d plotted against him. He looked away, feeling his jaw set tightly. He forced one last, desperate protest out past his gritted teeth anyway. “I don’t deserve this,” he rasped. _I don’t deserve_ **_any_** _of the things you’ve done for me…_

But when he finally lifted his head, Harold just smiled at him wryly. “God help us all, if we only get what we deserve.”

That was so true, Reese couldn’t deny it. He swallowed hard, knowing he’d lost the argument. That he _was_ lost, in this love he’d never looked for, had never expected – yet somehow, unworthy as he was, Harold had found him. Harold would go to the ends of the earth to find him, despite his many faults. He’d proved that by inventing his tagging machine. Harold would do just about anything for him, it seemed, including giving him princely gifts like this one-of-a-kind chess board, designed and hand-crafted by a master artist. Given all that, there was only one thing left to say. 

“Okay then. Thank you,” he whispered, humbled and grateful. “Thank you, Harold.” 

He refused even to let himself wonder what the gift meant. That was his gift to Harold. 

He wished he could give up on his plan to discover some of Harold’s secrets too, but despite his guilt, something inside him just couldn’t let go of that, even now. You really are a bastard, he told himself, but that didn’t help.

He did wonder where Finch had put Nathan’s old board, but he wasn’t going to ask. He was sure Harold had kept it, but even if he hadn’t, that was his business; and one thing Reese had no intention of prying into. He could give his friend that much, at least.

Harold beamed at him, as if pleased that he’d finally accepted his gift. “You’re entirely welcome. Now, please sit,” he invited. 

“Okay.” As he did, Reese made sure he looked down at his new chessboard again. He wasn’t sure he could keep what he felt – what Harold’s amazing gift meant to him – from showing just then. The chessboard was a safe place to hide his gaze.

Harold waited until he was seated, then moved to his side. Reese looked up at him, a bit surprised until Finch said quietly, “Before we begin playing, please roll up your sleeve, Mr. Reese, so I can check your wound.”

Oh, that again _. It’s fine_ , Reese wanted to say, dismissing it. But he knew that wouldn’t fly with Harold. That was obvious from the serious way he’d just called him “Mr. Reese” rather than John; and Reese didn’t want to start their week of games with yet another argument. Far from it. 

“All right.” Reminding himself that Harold was just taking care of him, which was far better than he deserved after choking him, he stifled a sigh and rolled up his sleeve as requested. This way, they could just get the doctoring over with and get on with the fun part: like playing chess, making bets, and having a few laughs. He couldn’t say learning Harold’s secrets would be fun, exactly; but it did seem as necessary as breathing. 

Harold checked his wound carefully, taking his time and peering at it closely. Reese found that highly amusing. But despite the huge temptation, he heroically refrained from making jokes about mother hens and hid his impatience, letting Harold look his fill. It was the least he could do. 

Finally Harold said, “Hmm. It does seem to be healing.” He straightened up again and shot Reese a stern look. “ _So far_.”

John allowed himself a bit of a smug grin. “Could’ve told you that,” he smirked, rolling his sleeve down again. 

Harold just rolled his eyes. “Need I remind you, the word ‘healing’ differs from the word ‘ _healed’_ , Mr. Reese, in that the former implies something still in process,” he answered tartly. 

Reese dipped his head to hide his urge to grin like a fool. God, he loved it when Harold got all prissy and wordy like that! But he knew better than to show it. He pretended to focus on buttoning his shirt sleeve up again instead.

“Your arm is far from _healed_ yet, so do be careful with it for the next few weeks,” Harold went on, eyeing him sharply, as if he’d somehow sensed Reese’s hidden amusement. “And it will need a fresh bandage before the day is out. I’ll do that later. In the meantime…” He stepped quickly behind Reese and gently tilted his head forward a bit, his fingertips cradling John’s cheeks. 

Taken by surprise, Reese inhaled sharply. He’d suffered too many Nazi chokeholds and garrotes during the war, to feel comfortable with anyone grabbing his head or neck from behind anymore. He tensed, freezing every muscle against the instinct to lash out at the startling, unexpected touch. _It’s Harold, it’s Harold, it’s safe_ , _don’t move!_ he told himself hastily, trying to relax though he didn’t know what the fuck Harold was up to. Normally, Harold never touched him like that. He knew better. 

So what the Hell? Was Harold messing with him because he’d just smirked at him, or – no. Harold’s grip was gentle, asking him to tilt his head forward rather than forcing him to, and his fingers were warm on John's face. So whatever this was, it wasn’t meant as punishment. Reese drew deep breaths, relaxing a little. Once he got past his surprise, he actually found the touch erotic. Other than when he’d tended his wound, Harold had never touched him so intimately before; and he’d been too feverish to enjoy that. But now, the scientist was so close he could feel the warmth of his body, and he had to suppress a shiver because it felt almost like Harold meant to _kiss the back of his head_. 

Down boy! he warned himself again frantically, knowing that couldn’t be what Harold intended. Still, he felt a warm rush of blood below his belt. 

_Shit!_

To prevent an erection, which Harold would surely see where he was standing, Reese wracked his brain for something disgusting to distract him from Harold’s touch. Toads came to mind – slimy, cold, repulsive things he’d always hated, even as a kid. He concentrated hard on the mental image. _Bunch o' toads. Big, ugly green suckers -- with warts. Ugh!_

That did it. His blood stopped rushing south and he blew out a breath, relieved. He was supposed to be a lethal, experienced international spy, after all. It wouldn’t do to let Harold see just how much this simple touch had affected him. Thank God Finch couldn’t read his mind…

But seconds passed, and still Harold didn’t speak or let go; and a guy can only think about slimy toads for so long. Finally, Reese couldn’t take it anymore. “Uh, Harold?” he rasped, trying to sound cool, calm and collected though his mouth had gone dry. “What’re you doin'?”

“Just checking on your other injuries,” Finch muttered. “These cuts on the back of your head.”

Great. More _doctoring._ Reese grimaced. He’d known this couldn’t be anything sexy. Even if Harold did somehow want him, he’d never do something this odd to show it. But he was irrationally disappointed anyway.

“They’re healing well too. Though you never did tell me how you got them.”

The comment sounded deceptively mild, but Reese wasn’t fooled. Disappointed that Finch was examining him again instead of kissing him, sure. But he was still paying attention, and knew Harold had just asked him a question. While he fumbled for an answer, Harold finally let go and moved around beside him again, peering curiously into his eyes. 

Shit! Harold had never asked about his cuts before. He’d hoped he never would, but he should’ve known his friend wouldn’t miss a scratch on him, no matter how slight. Jessica had been eagle-eyed when it came to assessing injuries and fixing him up too, but she’d been a nurse -- that was her profession. Finch was a scientist, yet somehow he was just as bad. 

John looked away, half annoyed, half embarrassed. He’d forgotten the damn cuts on his head. They hurt a lot less than his arm, and he was used to ignoring most things that hurt him anyway. They’d started healing while he was feverish, he guessed. But since they’d been self-inflicted, explaining them was hard. In a moment of despair at Fusco’s station, terrified that his decision to execute Stills would cost him Harold’s friendship, he’d banged the back of his head against the bathroom wall repeatedly, so hard that he’d cut it open. How the hell was he supposed to tell Harold _that_?

He thought fast. “Stills banged me up a bit when we fought. Nothing serious,” he shrugged. He hated lying to Finch, but telling the truth about that dark moment was impossible. It would’ve made his hidden feelings for Harold obvious.

“I see,” Finch said, his lips thinning in a way that told Reese he hadn’t bought it. “Got behind you, did he?” His sarcastic tone made it painfully clear just how unlikely he thought _that_ was. 

Ouch. But Reese just smirked, still trying to sell his story. “Not for long.” 

But that was a lie too. He’d been behind Stills from the start, not the other way around. Yet the bastard had still gotten a shot off before he’d managed to kill him. Embarrassing, really. Then again, Jerry hadn’t played fair. Grabbing Fusco to use as a human shield when he’d spotted Reese had tipped the odds sharply in his favor. At least it should have. But knowing what a rat Jerry was, Reese had come prepared to fight dirty too. So he’d shot over Fusco’s head, hit Stills between the eyes, and though wounded, had lived to fight another day; while Jerry was now buried six feet deep. That’s what counted to him, not his little cuts or his moment of doubt.

Mercifully, though he’d made it clear he didn’t believe Reese’s story, Harold didn’t pry into the origin of his cuts any further. Instead, he added, “I suppose you failed to notice that the back of your head is still a bit swollen, in addition to being lacerated?”

It had; and what’s more, now that he knew, he didn’t care. His cuts would heal, so he just shrugged again. “Oops.”

Harold narrowed his eyes, looking at Reese as if his head injuries were the only things keeping him from smacking him for that bit of insolence. “I shall be checking on those injuries as well,” he said sternly, “to make sure they don’t become infected. _Daily_.” He made it sound more like a threat than a promise.

It was Reese’s turn to roll his eyes. _Suit yourself_ , he thought, knowing Finch would. He couldn’t help wishing, though, that Harold had tried to kiss him just then, instead of checking on his cuts. Oh well. As lectures went, Harold had done worse in the past, so he didn’t complain. He’d expected this kind of bossy fussing from his scientist anyway, so as eye-rolls went, it was a fond one. 

Besides, there were two ways to look at Harold’s penchant for doctoring him. Though it was mostly unnecessary, it also meant that Reese could look forward to Harold touching him some more. _Daily_ , he snickered to himself. Hot damn! So he _really_ couldn’t complain. He wasn’t going to wait until the next time Harold wanted to check his bandage to start flirting, though. 

“Sure. I look forward to it,” he grinned, knowing Harold would assume his honesty was really sarcasm.

Harold did.

*

After their first game, while they were resetting the pieces for the next one, Reese lifted his gaze from the chessboard and paused with a piece in his hand, stunned at the name Finch had just casually mentioned. “You know _Max Schmeling_? The boxing champ?”

The number of people Finch knew, in numerous professions all over the world, had always impressed Reese. But a German boxing champion, for God sakes? A heavyweight who’d been fighting mostly in America, but had gone back to Germany years ago? It seemed so unlikely. He put the rook he’d picked up back on the board where it belonged, waiting for Finch to answer.

Harold looked a bit surprised at the skepticism Reese hadn’t quite managed to hide. “Yes, we’re acquainted,” he said warily, with a look that asked, _what of it_? 

_Oh no. You’re not getting away with **that,** my friend!_ Reese thought, fascinated.He smiled to himself, mentally rubbing his hands together in glee. _This is just the kind of info I want. Let the games begin!_

Emphasis on games, plural, because hey. Harold had just dropped a name. _A name from his own past_. Like he didn’t know Reese was a trained spy just dying to know more about him. Yet he’d just dropped it right into the middle of their conversation, like a piece of chum in front of a hungry shark. Harold didn’t make mistakes like that. Not even when he was distracted by having to plan thirty moves ahead so he could decimate Reese yet again in their next game. No, Harold could probably do _that_ in his sleep. Obviously, he’d wanted Reese to know that he knew Max Schmeling. Why?

For a few seconds Harold just stared back down at the board, as if he had nothing further to say about Schmeling. Then he moved a pawn. For a first move, it was nothing unusual. 

But what else was he up to? The real question was, was Harold playing a hidden game with Reese here too? And if he was, what kind of game, and for what purpose?

It was all Reese could do not to shiver with pure pleasure at that possibility. This was only their first day of chess, and already things were getting _so good_! He’d never expected that Finch might be up to something other than chess here too, but the idea was really intriguing. Another mystery he needed to solve, and he loved those – especially if they involved Harold. But for the moment, he tabled that question in favor of figuring out what approach to take to get more information about Schmeling out of his brilliant but close-mouthed partner, who’d mentioned the boxer but then annoyingly clammed up again. It was his move, but he really didn’t much care about their chess game at the moment. So he just moved a pawn of his own, then concentrated on the hint Harold had dropped about his past instead.

 _If I want to know more, looks like he’s gonna make me pry it out of him,_ Reese thought wryly _. Maybe that’s part of his game, if he is playing one. I can do that, that was my plan anyway. But reconnaissance first_. _Think it through. This is Finch after all_. _He hates stupid questions._

So. How had a quiet British spymaster who disliked sports come to know Max Schmeling? There _had_ to be a story behind that.

It was odd for several reasons – first because Finch wasn’t a sports fan. He didn’t care about football, rugby or soccer. Reese wasn’t even sure if he liked cricket, which was practically a religion in England; and since he disliked violence, boxing didn’t appeal to him either. Second, as far as Reese knew, Finch had never been to Germany. Austria yes, but not Germany. Though he could be wrong, since he knew almost nothing about Finch’s past. It was also possible that he’d met Schmeling on a trip to the U.S. that Reese didn’t know about either. But neither seemed likely.

So he wasn’t going to ask if Finch had met Schmeling at one of his fights. He was pretty sure he hadn’t. He searched his highly accurate memory for any hint of the boxer during his tenure as Finch’s bodyguard, but found nothing there. But Finch also could’ve met Schmeling after Reese had gone back to war the second time. 

His curiosity was really less about the boxer though, and more about how Finch was connected to him. What their relationship had been, or maybe still was. Were they friends? Not likely given what Finch had said, but John didn’t just want to assume that. He wanted to _know_. He felt hollowed out by the same sharp, instinctual hunger he always felt, when faced with the mystery of Harold’s life and past. That hunger had grown so strong, it drove him to use these games to get some information from Finch, even if he had to use sneaky, underhanded tactics to do it. 

That was just one option, though. There were others.

For the first time, Finch had dropped a hint about his past right in Reese’s lap. That had to mean something. Maybe that Finch actually _wanted_ him to ask questions about it. At the very least, that moment of openness was something Reese wanted to encourage. Seeing as how he owed Harold a debt for his splendid new board, it seemed only fair to give him a bit of honesty in return. He decided to risk asking a few questions openly, without subterfuge.

“Was Schmeling a spy? Is that how you met? Did you meet him in England, or in Germany?” Though he made it all sound casual, none of it was, especially that last question. If Finch said yes to it, Reese would know more about what other countries he’d visited, besides Austria, France and South America. He’d been curious about that for a while now.

“ _Mr. Reese_ ,” Finch cut off his questions with a chiding look over top of his glasses. “Shouldn’t you concentrate on the game? You may have noticed, I won the first one.”

Oh I noticed, Reese thought wryly. That, and the way you just deflected my question.

He’d been expecting that. Harold had always met questions about his past with either evasions or silence. But it would take a hell of a lot more than that to deter him. Finch had started this after all, by mentioning Schmeling. Their chess game notwithstanding, Reese wasn’t going to let him back out of explaining how they’d met now. 

He shrugged the admonition off with a careless wave of his hand. “Sheer luck,” he said breezily. “I was barely awake, is all. Or maybe my wound affected me.” That was a joke; he’d actually been distracted by something far more pleasant. The truth was, he’d paid the least amount of attention possible to their game, and just wallowed in watching Harold. He’d spent most of it surreptitiously gazing up at him through his lashes, while pretending to be looking down at his new board, considering his moves. He didn’t have an ounce of regret about losing, either. He hadn’t been able to resist sneaking peeks at his scientist, who looked exceptionally fine today. Relaxed, beautifully dressed, bright-eyed and even, on occasion, smiling. He’d have lost to him ten times over and gladly, just to have the pleasure of looking at Harold like that. Reese couldn’t admit to any of that, though. “But I’m wide awake now. This time I’ll win,” he smirked, because only he knew he wasn’t just talking about their next chess game. 

“Indeed?” Finch smiled back, in a wry way that clearly said, _cheeky._ Or maybe, _we’ll see about that_. 

“Sure,” Reese insisted, enjoying himself. “You’ll see.” 

“Hmmph.” Though Harold raised a skeptical eyebrow, Reese could tell he was amused. But when his eyes drifted down to Reese’s neck, his smile faded away. Harold looked down at the board again quickly, but Reese caught the glance and the change in his friend’s expression. 

_Interesting,_ he thought, his own focus on Finch secretly intensifying. He wasn’t sure what Harold had been looking at: the scar on the side of his neck where he’d been hit by shrapnel in North Africa, or the extra inches of skin he’d revealed at the base of his throat by unbuttoning his shirt. Maybe both? His scar was usually covered by his starched white shirt collars, but his current collar wasn’t starched and didn’t cover his neck as much. So when he’d undone his top button, he’d revealed the scar and more of his throat too. 

Finch looked down at the board, then moved another pawn.

Instead of deciding what his counter move would be, Reese tried to analyze his friend’s reaction. What had prompted that little look -- casual interest, concern or desire? Harold had looked away so fast it was hard to tell. But he’d looked a bit somber rather than embarrassed, so Reese was betting that little glance at his neck had been all about concern rather than lust. Maybe seeing that scar had made Harold feel bad again about how Reese had been hurt during the war. Yeah, it was probably just more of whatever Harold had felt when he’d seen his other scars, the ones from torture. Concern, sure, maybe even pity – probably mixed with disgust at how ugly they were. Damn. He just wished it had been desire instead.

Still, anticipation hummed in his veins. Plenty of time left for desire to show itself too, if it existed. In any case, his decision to leave his button undone had produced a reaction even sooner than he’d imagined it would. Harold’s tiny, covert glance, plus his surprising mention that he knew Schmeling, told Reese he was on the right track. Unexpected, really interesting things were already going on, just like he’d hoped. If he stuck with his secret plan, God only knew what might happen next. Or what else Harold might tell him, without meaning to or even realizing he was doing it. 

Reese seized his chance. He’d shaken off his shock at Harold’s expensive gift, and being able to watch his scientist smiling and devoting himself to a game they both loved had helped restore his good humor. He was in a mood to be really cheeky and inquisitive now. Finch had given him a tantalizing hint by mentioning that he knew a German boxing champ. He’d have to see where it led. 

But first, just so Finch wouldn’t think he didn’t give a damn about their game, he moved another pawn. Then, reaching for the bottle of Cognac he’d placed near Finch’s elbow, he poured his friend a bit of liquid encouragement. Not a stiff shot, just a generous amount to sip. He knew Harold’s preferences, and he couldn’t afford to let Finch suspect that he meant to use the drink to loosen his inhibitions. “Here, have a taste,” he invited.

Still, when Reese set the snifter beside him, Harold blinked. “Bit early in the morning for that, isn’t it?” he asked mildly. 

But Reese knew his scientist, knew every nuance of his voice and expressions, and the way he thought. Another man might’ve worried that he planned to get him drunk in order to win their chess games. Another man might’ve stiffened, insulted or defensive. Finch hadn’t flinched or even shifted in his chair. He knew better, knew Reese wouldn’t stoop to that.

 _Not to win at chess, anyway_.

No, Finch wasn’t annoyed or worried. Reese could tell he just needed to nudge him a bit. He did love Cognac after all, and he’d already crafted a careful little nudge. “Aww, come on, Harold,” he teased lightly. “It’s a gift. Besides, it’s just the two of us here, and we’re not going anywhere. It’s safe. Have a little fun. I’ll join you.”

He knew Finch would understand that he didn’t mean he’d be drinking alcohol. He’d been sober since they’d joined forces, and he was damn well gonna stay that way. He went back to the refrigerator, took out a couple of the glasses they had chilling there, and some club soda and lime juice instead. Walking back to Finch, he set them on the table beside the chessboard, poured the soda and lime into his glass and held it up, smiling. 

“ _Have a little fun_ ,” Harold repeated, with a bemused little smile Reese didn’t quite understand, as if the phrase held some private meaning for him. Before Reese could ask about that, he shook himself, shrugged and raised his own, more elegant snifter to clink against Reese’s glass. “All right, if you insist.”

Reese grinned and threw back some of his club soda, implying shared fun rather than insistence. It worked. Finch took a sip of his drink. “Mm. It’s very good,” he murmured wryly, “but then you already knew that.”

 _Yeah. I know what you like_ , Reese thought as he settled back into his chair. But he just smiled and didn’t say it. Even Finch might read something into that. He needed to lull him into a false sense of security, not rouse his suspicions, so he kept his mouth shut.

“Apologies. That sounded as if I’m ungrateful,” Harold said suddenly, looking abashed. “Thank you, John. This truly is wonderful Cognac.”

Reese dipped his head in acknowledgement. He took a swig of his club soda, then set it down and shrugged. He’d started with honesty. No reason to stop just yet, since it seemed to be working. “Why shouldn’t you have the best? You give that to me. This chessboard, this library, this house… I just like to return the favor.”

Finch didn’t try to argue with that. He couldn’t, and Reese knew it. Shrewdly, he’d counted on it. Hard to argue with a friend who only wants to give you gifts in return for yours, after all. Harold just smiled in reply, his shy little smile that Reese loved. 

Perfect. His scientist was relaxed and smiling, and even sipping Cognac. Everything was going according to his plan. Reese pressed on, encouraged. “Speaking of returning favors, I have an idea,” he said casually. “Let’s swap war stories. I’ve told you some of mine, but you haven’t shared yours yet. So. How ‘bout you tell me a story while we play, and then I’ll tell you one of mine? That should add some spice to our games.” 

_You can start with how you met Schmeling_ , he thought but didn’t say. Yet.

He spoke easily, confidently though, as if he had every expectation that Finch would agree. As if he didn’t know perfectly well that his friend was more likely to leave the room than do as he’d asked. Yet so far, Finch hadn’t seemed to mind his questions too much. He hadn’t really answered them yet either, but Reese was used to that, and nothing if not persistent. If the direct approach didn’t work, he could always switch tactics and be more devious later. So he smiled over at Harold, seemingly perfectly relaxed and innocent, while actually watching his friend carefully in case he decided to bolt.

Maybe he hadn’t managed to look all that innocent; or maybe Finch was already suspicious, because he set his drink down, his blue eyes suddenly sharp and wary. “ _Mr. Reese_ … Are we here to play chess, or do you mean to interrogate me?”

Had Finch really seen through him that fast? Not good. That could ruin everything. But Reese had anticipated the possibility, and prepared a response just in case. He didn’t stiffen or even bat an eyelash. He just smiled as if that had been a silly thing to say, sat back and spread his hands wide, palms up, in a ‘who me?’ gesture. “Aww _Harold_ ,” he shook his head in disappointment that wasn’t entirely fake. “ _Come on!_ Do you see any thumbscrews here?”

He was just joking, but realized he’d miscalculated when Harold’s eyes widened fractionally in what looked like alarm. _Mental note_ , he told himself hastily. _Never joke with Harold about interrogation or torture!_

Before Finch could start checking around the library for hidden thumbscrews, he added, “What I mean is, of course not! It’s nothing like that. I’ve just been thinking lately…” He shrugged to hide a smirk, because he’d just thought of a shrewder approach to getting what he wanted. “About my journal. Writing about the war in it was a good idea. I think it’s helped, but... I’d kinda like to talk about the war a little, too. With you. If you don’t mind, anyway. I think that might help too.” Knowing he had to tone his pitch just right, he carefully changed his expression to a kind of awkward, earnest pleading. He wasn’t sure if it worked, though. It was a risk because it wasn’t like him. He’d never been good at looking vulnerable, and he’d never asked Finch to talk about the war before, or asked for help before either. Still, he gave it his best shot.

Reese knew his friend very well, knew just how to play him. He was betting that Finch’s compassion would compel him to agree. It wasn’t just typical of him, it was a defining characteristic; so it was a pretty safe bet. True to form, Harold hesitated. He looked taken aback, and Reese knew he’d managed to surprise him, at least. “I see,” he said slowly, clearly trying to decide if he could open up if Reese really needed him to. 

_Or maybe he’s still trying to decide if this really is an interrogation after all…_

Reese took another sip of his drink, still looking loose and relaxed. It was important, because the slightest hint that he was actually using these games as a way to question Harold would send his scientist running. He also knew that using his own problems to play on Harold’s compassion might’ve been despicable, if his goal hadn’t been so harmless. He just wanted Harold to talk about himself a little. They’d been partners for months, and he’d devoted himself to Harold’s secret war, even risked his life for it. So surely that wasn’t too much to ask. Hell, most guys talked about themselves without any prompting. But not Harold. He wondered if his partner’s caring nature could win out over his ingrained habit of secrecy. Knowing Harold as he did, he was betting it would.

He won that bet. Finally Harold said slowly, “Well, I suppose I could…”

“Okay. You can go first with a war story if you want,” Reese teased. “So tell me. How’d you meet Schmeling?”

Finch rolled his eyes again in exasperation at his persistence, or maybe because he still suspected he was being manipulated. Reese wasn’t sure which. Despite that, he was too curious to let this drop. He’d latched on to Schmeling’s name like the bulldog he was, and Harold seemed to sense that he’d never let go until he coughed up some information.

“Wellll…” the scientist drawled, so slowly that Reese knew he was being teased in return. It surprised him. He’d half expected Harold would reject his first move in his secret game outright, especially after his question about being interrogated. But here he was, seemingly agreeing to talk anyway. It wasn’t the Cognac either, he’d only had a few sips. 

Reese took another sip of his club soda, his body relaxed, the move seemingly nonchalant; but secretly he was riveted. Excited. Finch was finally going to talk! About _himself! Holy shit._ He could hardly believe Harold was about to grant one of his most fervent wishes, and with only a little prodding, too.

“My first contact regarding him came during the war, in a radio message from one of my agents in Germany.”

“Hmm.” Reese nodded calmly, still trying not to show how much this meant to him. He gave himself points for guessing that Finch might’ve met the boxer through espionage, rather than at a fight. He noted that Harold hadn’t said that was the first time he’d heard of Schmeling though. Since his friend was always precise, Finch must’ve known of his boxing career by that time. He also guessed, by the way he’d paused and the serious look on his face, that this wasn’t a happy memory for Finch. 

Still, now that he’d begun to reveal it, Reese had to know the rest of the story. “And?”

Harold looked down, studying the board again. Reese got the feeling it was an excuse to avoid his gaze, or to quit talking. But then Finch moved a knight. Reese recognized his moves suddenly, from his chess studies. They were the first few moves of the Ruy Lopez, otherwise known as “the Spanish game”. It wasn’t the way Finch usually started a game. Too mundane, too common an approach for him, he supposed. But it didn’t matter. Reese had no doubt his friend’s next moves would deviate from the ones in that game in some startling, unexpected way. Or not. Finch could start with any move he wanted after all, even that of a rank beginner, and still beat most of the people on the planet at chess. 

Reese’s attention was still focused far more on Finch’s story than on their chess game. Because it was expedient, he made the next move of the Ruy Lopez game, advancing his own knight to Nc6 in response. Then he pretended to study the board again, but he was actually eagerly waiting to hear what Harold would say next.

“She needed a place to hide two Jewish teenagers. The woman who’d been sheltering them had been turned in to the Gestapo by a neighbor, but the boys somehow managed to get away before they were arrested as well. They had no place to go though, no real refuge. My agent found them only by chance, hiding in an alley when she and Schmeling were out buying groceries. I can only imagine how frightened the boys must’ve been, as the Gestapo were still out hunting for them.”

Reese could imagine it too. All too well. Only once he did, he fell headlong into his own past. His mouth went dry as memory hit him like a hammer, enveloping him and stealing his breath. All at once, the chessboard and then the library faded around him and he was back in Morocco, being tracked through Casablanca’s blazing midday heat. Being _hunted_ by merciless Germans with guns and baying dogs. No matter how fast he ran, they followed, relentlessly hunting him through its old streets, buildings, back alleys and finally even the ancient, shadowed, twisting maze of the bazaar. 

Though he paused once to bind up his wound, wrapping strips of his shirt around it and tying them off with his teeth, he didn’t have time to do a good job of it, and his blood trail made it easier for them the Gestapo and their fucking vicious dogs to follow him. Despite his best efforts to evade them, after some time they got closer as he slowed, blood loss and exertion finally starting to weaken him. The dogs’ sharp, excited baying grew louder and louder. So did the shouts of the men hunting him. 

He ran on anyway. Determined not to be taken easily, he dodged past merchants in their stalls and people out shopping, bewildered faces blurring past him until everything around him finally started to spin…

“John?”

The voice -- he knew it but he couldn’t stop, the Gestapo were too close… He could hear himself panting, almost gasping now as he ran on desperately, starting to stagger like a drunk from running for so long, while wounded in the stifling heat. The acrid taste of anger and despair filled his mouth and his heart as they began to close in… 

“John. John, it’s all right!”

Finch. It was Finch talking, and he was… In Morocco? Or in the library? 

“ _John!”_

Reese’s head spun. Finch, that was Harold, he was.. He was being chased – no, listening to a story, a _story_ Harold was telling about two boys, _boys_ being chased by --

He swallowed hard, his fists clenched under the table as he fought to find himself again, figure out where and _when_ he was. God, he hated this! The story had gotten to him, made him remember… 

_It’s just a story_ , he told himself, angry at his own weakness as his heart raced and he sweated. _And_ _it’s Harold’s story, not yours…_ _You’re not there, that was a long time ago!_

And yet. You never forget being alone, being hunted, being _prey_. He knew just how terrified those two kids must’ve been.

Kids, being chased by the Gestapo in Harold’s story. Kids, not _me_ , he told himself again. But he still felt hot and scared, like he was running, trying desperately to get away... 

He shifted, breathing hard, his heart pounding with the awful memory, trying to break the grip of his past. His right arm throbbed sharply at the movement. The pain helped. So did knowing the pain was in the wrong arm, not the one he’d been shot in back in Morocco. But he still saw the shadows of the bazaar, all its colors around him…

 _This isn’t then_. _You’re not being chased by the fucking Gestapo now, idiot!_ he told himself angrily. _You’re in the library with Harold!_ But his body didn’t want to believe it. His heart kept pounding, his muscles tense with memory and fear. _Damn it!_ He finally clawed at his thigh, digging hard into his leg muscles. Again, the pain helped. The bazaar wavered around him, and suddenly he could see Harold sitting across from him again. 

_Thank God. That’s more like it_. Reese blew out a breath, reached for his drink with his left hand, and saw it was slightly unsteady. Embarrassing. So was the way Harold flickered in and out, there one minute, but replaced by a grimy tiled wall in Casablanca the next. _Fuck!_ He still hadn’t quite made it back yet. Reese hesitated to pick up his glass, afraid he’d grip it so hard he’d break it. He finally lifted it anyway. His palm cold with sweat, he held it gingerly and knocked the club soda back, needing to ease his bone-dry throat. That helped too, the sharp, cool, refreshing taste of the lime in it helping to shift him back to the present. He coughed once, harshly, then sipped again and felt better.

Harold’s image steadied. Reese stared at him, trying hard to stay with him. Finch looked back at him, concern in his blue eyes as if he realized what his story had inadvertently done to his operative. 

He must know I faded out for a time, Reese thought. He’s been calling my name, trying to help me come back. 

He stared fixedly at Harold, and at last, his image stayed steady. He’d come back. He swallowed more soda and quit twitching, took a deep breath and even managed a small smile to reassure Harold. 

“Better?” Finch asked softly.

Reese nodded. He sat back in his chair, forcing himself to slouch a bit, feeling his thumping heartbeat finally start to slow. He rubbed the chair with his good hand, concentrating on the smoothness of its polished wood to ground himself. _Better…_

Harold smiled back, a tiny, rueful quirk of his lips, half silent understanding, half apology. He sipped his Cognac calmly, not speaking now, just making a quiet space between them for Reese to recover, while dust motes danced between them in a shaft of sunlight over the board.

Reese loved his friend fiercely in that moment, for his perception and quiet kindness. It wasn’t the first time he’d been caught up in terrible memories of the war while he was with Harold. Luckily it was rare, but it had happened to him off and on, ever since the war. A memory would grab him and he’d get caught up in it so much that the present would fade out around him, and he’d relive some terrible battle or assassination until the memory finally faded away again, leaving him shaken in its wake. “Shell shock”, “battle fatigue” -- the military had names for it now, but no cures. Which didn’t say much for them, since Reese suspected the problem was as old as war itself. He didn’t like to talk about it, but when he did, he just called them his “episodes”. He and Finch both called them that now. Reese thought of them, secretly, as staring into the raven’s eye. He’d seen enough death on the battlefield, to know what was coming for him. He figured these glimpses into his past were reminders of what lay in wait for him someday.

His episodes used to happen more often when they’d first reunited. Mostly at night but on the odd occasion during the day too, when some loud noise or conversation jolted Reese into vivid memories of the war. He hated the daylight episodes like this the most. At least his nightmares about the war happened when he was alone in bed; but having them grab him by the throat in broad daylight, in front of Harold, was always mortifying. 

That hadn’t happened for a while, and Reese had started to hope it wouldn’t any more, that he was finally done with it. Writing about the war in his journal must’ve helped reduce the frequency of his episodes, since they’d almost gone away now. But here one was again, and he really wished it hadn’t happened in front of Harold. Fuck. 

But he never had to say anything at moments like this, never had to try awkward explanations when his violent past caught him and shook him up. Somehow Harold always _knew,_ and he’d told him firmly long ago, “Never apologize for being a brave soldier, John.” When it happened, mostly Harold would just call to him gently, then wait patiently for him to come back to himself, like he was now. It was Finch's move, it had been for some time, but Harold didn’t seem impatient to make it. He just looked at the board and took another sip of his Cognac, waiting calmly as he always did, for Reese to regain his footing. 

Reese took another sip of his drink, feeling his racing heart slow, letting his rage and fear ebb away, letting the copper-tinged smell of his blood and the hungry sounds of baying dogs and their handlers’ vicious shouts thin and fade, lost in time. Back in the past, where they belonged. He focused on the barely audible, soothing ticking of a nearby clock instead, and on Harold’s quiet breathing. _Tick tock…_

Tension bled away as Harold’s peaceful presence and the sunlit silence of the library settled over him again, familiar and dear. Reese stopped panting, his breathing slowing as he listened to Harold’s. He shut his eyes for a moment, drinking it all in, telling himself he was safe, and finally starting to believe it. He rubbed the smooth, polished wood of his chair slowly and just breathed in time with Harold in the quiet for a while. In and out. Here, not there. Now, not then. _Safe_.

After a time, he sighed and relaxed subtly in his chair, to show Harold he really was back with him again. He managed a rueful little smile. “Okay. I’m okay now,” he murmured, embarrassed as always. 

Harold shook his head. “I’m glad, but I feel I should apologize. That story. I should’ve known it might…” He shook his head and trailed off ruefully, staring down into his drink. He frowned slightly, swirling the Cognac around in his snifter as if he were wondering if he should continue telling his tale, since it had already triggered an episode. 

“No. It’s all right, really. I asked you to tell it, and I wanna hear it,” Reese insisted. “Don’t stop there, okay?” Though he’d never been able to control them, he kicked himself inwardly for having one of his fucking _episodes_ right when Harold had finally decided to share some of his past with him. “I have to know how it ends. Did the Gestapo find the boys?” 

He wondered who Harold’s female agent had been too, but he’d never ask. He wasn’t surprised that Finch referred to her only as “she”. He expected nothing more. Even after the war, a spymaster had to protect the identities of his former agents. Reese knew he was lucky Finch had decided to tell him about this at all, since it would’ve been classified “top secret” by MI-6 during the war. Which was why Harold was only giving him generalities now, no precise locations or specifics other than Schmeling’s name. Reese understood that too. But he couldn’t let Harold stop there.

The scientist shot him a careful look, as if making sure he’d fully recovered before going on. “No, they did not. As it happened, Schmeling had been a childhood friend of my agent. He’d just finished convalescing from a war injury when they came upon the boys in the alley. But he offered to help them by hiding them in his suite at a big hotel. His rooms were much larger than her small apartment and much less likely ever to be searched, due to his service in the German military. My agent took the boys in temporarily first, as a precaution, then radioed me to find out what I knew of Mr. Schmeling. She wanted to know if entrusting the boys to him would be a good idea, or if I thought he could be setting a trap for her and the children.”

That was what the war had done to people in countries under Nazi rule, Reese knew. People couldn’t trust anyone, not even childhood friends. Harold’s agent had done the right thing in checking Schmeling out, because spies could trust no one but their handlers. And sheltering Jews in Nazi Germany, or in any country they took over after a certain point, had been a crime punishable by death. 

“Schmeling was really brave, to offer to do that. Or was he setting your agent up?”

Finch’s mouth thinned as if he too was caught up in his memories, reliving that dangerous time. “At first, I was unsure of that myself.”

Reese reviewed what he knew about Schmeling. World champion boxer with a precise style, he’d won a lot of bouts, beat Joe Louis for the title in 1936, then finally lost to him in a famous, highly publicized rematch in 1938, where Louis had knocked him out in the first round.

“Wasn’t Schmeling pro-Nazi?” he asked curiously. “As I recall, after his first fight with Joe Louis he went back to Germany, and claimed he’d won it because he was ‘of a superior race’ or some such crap.”

“You’re partly correct,” Harold said coolly. “Such statements were made publicly in Germany afterwards regarding the fight, and supposedly by Mr. Schmeling. However their true origin was actually Joseph Goebbels, the Nazi Minister of propaganda.”

“Hmm. That figures,” Reese nodded, reminded how unreliable news from Germany had been during the war, due to the Nazis’ devious manipulation of the press. “Did you know that at the time? And what did you tell your agent?”

“Let’s say I strongly suspected that Mr. Schmeling was anti-Nazi. He’d kept his opinions of them to himself for the most part, but his close friends knew he despised them, and he never joined the Nazi party. That was a difficult feat for anyone in Germany in those days, especially for a celebrity like Mr. Schmeling. And MI6 had learned of it.”

Meaning, they’d checked Schmeling out. Reese made a shrewd guess as to why MI6 might’ve made it their business to know something about him. Because a popular sports figure like Schmeling, who’d been a kind of German hero before Joe Louis beat him, could’ve traveled freely back and forth between the US and Germany, with little or no attention being paid to his movements or papers. People like that were always of interest to intelligence agencies, and had often been used as secret couriers or spies during the war. Maybe Schmeling had been one, for all Reese knew.… But he didn’t ask, preferring to let the tale unfold however Finch chose to tell it.

“So I told my operative to go ahead and let him shelter the children, but to watch him afterwards to make sure all was well.”

Reese nodded. Given what little MI-6 had known of Schmeling, Finch had made the best decision he could. But Reese also knew what his friend wasn’t saying. If Schmeling had tried to betray the kids and his agent, she would’ve killed Schmeling, taken the boys back and sheltered them herself, if possible. He knew it because it was what he would’ve done, in her shoes.

Harold stopped talking for a moment, and smoothly moved his rook.

Reese smiled to himself. Harold was bringing out his ‘big guns’ now. He should probably be worried, but he was far too caught up in Harold’s story to worry about chess. If Harold won again, so be it. He could live with that.

“She did as instructed and risked visiting Schmeling afterwards, to ensure that the children were safe. He hid them well, at great risk to himself, as you noted. He was able to obtain sufficient food for them by claiming, whenever he went shopping, that he needed extra food because he was training for his next boxing match. He was both famous and well-liked, so despite rationing, the local shopkeepers indulged him.”

Reese admired the ruse. “Clever.” He’d read that the Nazis had often caught people trying to shelter Jews during the war by encouraging people to report any neighbors who seemed to be buying more food than they needed. Schmeling had gotten around that trap rather neatly. And here he’d written the boxer off as a racist due to Nazi propaganda, when he’d actually risked his own life to save some Jewish kids. You never knew about people, really. 

He wondered where Schmeling was now, what had happened to him and the boys he’d saved. Before the events Finch was describing, the boxer had come back to America in 1938, to fight Joe Louis a second time for the heavyweight championship. But it hadn’t worked out well. After what he’d supposedly said about defeating Joe Louis after their first fight, Americans had turned against Schmeling. Due to Goebbels’ racist propaganda, despite Max’s skill in the ring, they’d assumed he sided with the Nazis. Reese remembered reading in a newspaper that when Schmeling had come out of his dressing room for his second bout with Louis, boxing fans had booed him and even pelted him with garbage. He wondered if that had thrown Schmeling off enough to contribute to his defeat that day.

At any rate, after he’d lost that fight, Schmeling had gone back to Germany. Reese had no idea what had happened to him there, at least not right after he’d gone back home. But he knew the Nazis would’ve been furious with him for losing that second big, highly publicized fight to a black man. They hated it when all their racist nonsense about Aryan superiority got knocked on its ass, especially with the whole world watching. For that and his refusal to join the Party, the Nazis would’ve likely made life hard for Schmeling. They’d probably drafted him soon after he went home. In fact, Reese wouldn’t have been surprised if Schmeling had been sent to the Russian front, as punishment for losing to Louis. If that were true, he wondered how the boxer had wound up back in Germany in time to save those kids. Hadn’t Finch mentioned that Schmeling had been wounded?

Harold had stopped talking again, staring down at the board. Maybe he’d gotten lost in his memories, Reese thought. He decided to give him a minute, and kept quiet despite his burning desire to know more.

In the silence that fell, he suddenly realized that he hadn’t made a move in some time. Embarrassed that his “episode”, then his absorption in his story had kept Finch waiting, he finally moved a pawn, clearing a path for his second knight to maneuver. It was a hasty move, and Harold shot him a curious glance, but Reese ignored it. He’d sacrifice a great deal more than a move in a chess game to get Harold to keep on talking. When he still didn’t speak, he prodded a bit more. “When did you actually meet Schmeling? Or did you only communicate by radio?” He knew he was pushing it, and that Finch might clam up again; but the story had been so interesting and unexpected so far, he had to risk it.

Finch paused, probably considering whether he could give him any more information, then decided it was all right. “We met just after the war ended. He came to England once, at my invitation. I wanted to find out how the children were doing, and if I could be of any assistance. 

I learned that after losing to Mr. Louis, Max had been drafted into the Luftwaffe as a Paratrooper. He was then sent on extremely dangerous missions. He assumed that was intended as punishment both for losing the heavyweight championship to a black man, and for refusing to join the Party. I suspect he was correct. The Nazis felt he’d publicly embarrassed them on both counts, and were probably hoping he’d die while parachuting out of a plane.”

“Suicide missions, huh? Ouch,” Reese winced. That was even worse than being sent to the Russian front, and he could sympathize. The SAS had tried to get rid of him too, ordering him to leave Africa and train partisans in Nazi-occupied Sicily, before the American invasion forces had even arrived there. Talk about a suicide mission. If his superiors in the SAS hadn’t destroyed his loyalty by then, and if he hadn’t been obsessed with getting back to see Jess’s grave to say goodbye instead of heading off to Sicily, he’d have gone there. Now he was glad he hadn’t. Because despite his devotion to duty, he was convinced that by that time the SAS had secretly decided he was probably a traitor, and used that order to try to get him killed. If he hadn’t defied it and been court-martialed and discharged instead, they might’ve succeeded. He felt a bit of kinship with the boxer. 

“Schmeling’s lucky he survived.” _So am I._

“Indeed. Those boys are as well. At any rate, Max did as he was ordered, but then got relatively lucky. Rather than dying, he was wounded when a plane he was in got strafed by the Americans. He was hit by shrapnel. He wasn’t hurt badly enough to be disabled, but enough to be discharged from the Luftwaffe. He returned to his home in Germany to recover. That’s when he met my agent again, and took the children in. 

Soon after, he went to work part-time for a printer, so he could pay his bills and feed them all while he trained for his next bout. But things still weren’t easy for them. As you know, Germany was heavily bombed, then invaded by both America and Russia. Due to all the chaos, professional sports became impossible, so Max’s boxing career ended. And when the war itself finally ended, Germany’s economy was in ruins. 

By then, his employer had been killed in a bombing raid. His shop was destroyed as well, so Max needed another job. My agent had given him a low level number to ring at MI6, in case he needed to get the children out of Germany. He rang it then, and the message was forwarded to me. I arranged a meeting, and Max then told me he wanted the boys to come to England if possible, and be placed with Jewish families there. Many German cities had been largely bombed into rubble, jobs were scarce, most schools had been destroyed, people were starving and their prospects were bleak. Though he’d become fond of them, Max felt that life would be far better for the boys in Britain. I agreed. 

So I arranged a position for him at a Coca Cola plant in Germany, and for him to send the children to England. I found a home for both of them with a Jewish family who’d lost children during the war, and were more than happy to take them both in. That way, the brothers could stay together. Their parents and younger sister had all been sent to Auschwitz, where they were killed. Those boys had already lost so much, I felt that was the least I could do.”

 _The least you could do_. Reese shook his head, in disbelief at his friend’s modesty. Finch had done a hell of a lot -- and more, Reese suspected, than he was even saying. He’d probably saved those boys’ lives by getting them out of there and saved Schmeling from starvation too, by giving him a job. Reese wouldn’t have been surprised if Harold had also paid for the boys’ trip to England, and maybe Schmeling’s as well, in addition to finding the boxer a new job. But he didn’t ask about all that. Any time he drew attention to Harold’s generosity, it just made his friend uncomfortable; and he figured he’d pried into this incident enough already.

To his surprise though, Harold wasn’t quite done telling the story. “Mr. Schmeling applied himself admirably. With only a little help from me, he ended up owning his own bottling plant and doing rather well financially. The children took a while to settle in, but now they are both thriving in their new home. Max keeps in touch with them by letters. Oh, and Max told me that he and Joe Louis became friends as well. They still are, to this day.” Harold smiled slightly, as if the idea of such an unlikely friendship pleased him.

“Wow.” John sat back in his chair, half stunned, hardly knowing what to say. Much as he’d hoped that Finch would finally talk to him during these games, he’d never expected to hear anything like this. Like distant stars aligning, three brave people -- Harold, his agent, and a boxer with a good heart -- had managed, despite distance, danger and all the odds against them, to work together to save two boys marked for death by a brutal, savage regime. It was amazing.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to everyone who's been reading "Hellhound"! I finally got around to posting this sequel, and renaming this and "Hellhound" as a series, "The Hellhound Chronicles". This is part two. As usual, I wanted the newest chapter to be a Christmas present for those who love this story. : ) I hope you're all weathering this pandemic storm safely, and that you have a good Christmas. I'm thankful for all of you, and your many kind kudos and comments on this story over the past few years. You've been wonderful to me, and I appreciate each and every one of you. I really look forward to hearing what you think of this first chapter in part 2 of "The Chronicles".
> 
> Apologies for using another Nazi symbol in the illo for this. But since they are the evil which our heroes are fighting, I felt I had to. I just greyed it out and tried to minimize it as best I could, and emphasize Harold and John. Btw, all credit for the lovely photo of John I used in it must go to Aragarna. I found it on her Tumblr site "Caviezel Daily". I hope you like the illustration, please let me know what you all think of it.
> 
> Last but not least, the tale Harold tells in this story is based on facts. Max Schmeling did help save two Jewish boys during WWII, I just fictionalized the incident a bit to suit this story. But for those interested, here's a link to more about the real story.  
> https://www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1989-12-23-sp-588-story.html#:~:text=%E2%80%9CBeginning%20on%20Nov.,everything%20he%20had%20for%20us.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Hellhound: Pursuit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28173993) by [Souhashi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Souhashi/pseuds/Souhashi)




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